It began at the edges of the Garden, where the soil hummed with stories not yet claimed.
Not new.
Just paused.
There, one of the Pages rose—not with thunder or light, but with a single step that made no sound and yet changed everything around it.
They wore no armor.
No crest.
No lineage.
Only a cloak woven from the echoes of choices left unmade.
They walked toward the Listening Ring, where the child sat beneath the Sky That Holds, head tilted back, watching stars made of kept memory.
The Page knelt, and for the first time, spoke:
"I never became."
The child did not reply.
They reached forward and touched the Page's brow.
And in that moment, they did not become either.
They continued.
Together.
—
Not long after, another arrived.
Then another.
And another.
Pages torn from mythic codices.
Pages discarded by choosers of more dramatic stories.
Pages forgotten in drafts that had long since turned to dust.
Some bore scars.
Others bore questions.
None bore endings.
